


Beat

by fansofcollisions



Category: Neon Genesis Evangelion
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Clubbing, F/F, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-06
Updated: 2015-05-06
Packaged: 2018-03-29 06:18:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3885562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fansofcollisions/pseuds/fansofcollisions
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maybe sadness is catching.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beat

Misato is slurring again, a tendril of tainted drool hanging dangerously close to the bar, sweet and sick and primed to fall, its barley hue glistening in the blacklight. Her jacket sleeve is stained with some indiscernible fluid and luminesces, a dull counterpoint to the rest of the flashing colours from the lights on the walls. Given three more minutes she’ll nod off to sleep against the bar and her purse will become the property of some leather clad twenty-something with just enough privilege to deem his lawbreaking “edgy” and a fit expression of the wistfulness and insanity of youth: mournful for his lost chance at teenage rebellion, the prose of Kerouac too fresh in his mind.

The club’s roar, persistent and predictable enough to be classed as white noise (at least to a scientific mind) beats with steady pulse against the high ceiling. The claustrophobia might stem from the stumbling mass of bodies, or perhaps it’s just the oversaturation of sound waves on the air. Either way, Ritsuko’s chest feels tight and she wonders, again, why she bothers to follow Misato through seedy doorways and down black-panelled hallways to places like these. Especially when she knows how the evening will end; this isn’t the first time she’s lugged a 140 pound mass of muscle and raven hair and cheap beer to the nearest cab.

Especially when it always feels like _this_. Like she’s been abandoned somehow, like her presence was only fleetingly needed: an ice-breaker, an excuse.

She understands, though. People gather friends where they can get them. Misato must have found herself a damn good one at the bottom of the bottle.

“Come on.”

Her light grip is enough to rouse Misato, at least partially. Her eyes open and she grins cheerily, pupils blown and unfocused. She looks right through Ritsuko.

“Go sleep in a real bed.”

“Comfy…” she purrs, burrowing her head into her arms. The bartender leers and Ritsuko shoots him a dirty look.

“No, you’re not,” she commands, and pulls on Misato’s arm. She follows, swinging about on the bar stool: centrifugal motion, too strong for full stomachs and bleary eyes, and suddenly Misato’s goofy expression is replaced by mild panic, mirrored on Ritsuko’s face. “Oh, shit, shit-“

Misato claps a hand to her mouth as Ritsuko searches in vain for a garbage can. Judging by the sticky glasses littering every surface, the outcome is not promising. “Come _on_.” Nausea having roused Misato fully, she’s a far more pliable subject and Ritsuko manages to lever her out through the middle of the crowd. A hand makes a grab at Ritsuko’s blouse and she smacks wildly at the intruder with all the vehemence of swatting at wasps in the summertime. The hand retracts and they’re mercifully free of the mass of ravers. The corridor to the exit is empty. It’s only one AM: the party is barely started. Nobody’s had enough to drink to call it a night. Nobody’s ready for the party to end.

And yet. Misato is wasted.

Ritsuko stopped being surprised by this in college.

It’s no less concerning than it was four years ago.

Ritsuko’s kitten heels squelch with every step – a goodbye favour from the spilled drink coating on the floor. Maybe she’ll burn them when she gets home. The scent of charred synthetic fabric might get the couple next door off her case about the tobacco smoke. (It’s not like their child’s constant screams are any less of an affront to decent community living standards.)

“Are you going to hurl?” she asks, matter-of-fact, business brusque. Misato shakes her head and buries her nose into Ritsuko’s neck. She huffs little sour breaths into the space between shirt and skin and Ritsuko shivers, despite the warm summer air. “Do you want me to call you a cab?”

Again, Misato shakes her head. The top of her head tickles against Ritsuko’s chin. It feels as though her slenderer shoulders will snap with the dead weight thrust upon them. She debates pushing her off, but decides that course of action might end with broken bones and bloody pavement. She endures.

“-m tired. Csk---” The words are hard to make out, but the tighter grip against Ritsuko’s forearm tells her all she needs to know.

“No.”

“One night.”

“You threw up on my sofa last time.”

“I paaaid,” she whines, and Ritsuko wants to shake her, for this, and for more things than this.

“Go home. Don’t invite me out to one of these things again.”

“But it was fun.”

“For who?”

“For _us_.”

“For you.”

“For _ussss…_ ugh.”

“Tell me that again once you aren’t lizard coloured.”

Even with eight drinks in her system and barely able to hold herself up, with words barely more than a spittle-drenched blend, she still manages to pull off that air that has the men falling at her feet. “-s my natural _glow_ ,” she manages cheerfully, cocking a hip to one side in a poor imitation of a sultry pose that might have worked wonders if she still retained the ability to balance. As it were, without Ritsuko’s support she falls gracelessly onto the ground. It rather ruins the effect.

It’s also not entirely unendearing.

Maybe-

The yellow glow of an approaching vehicle shines through the darkness and Ritsuko throws up her hand in vague hope. It’s a worthy risk. The cab pulls over and she turns to Misato.

“Get up.”

“Mmm.”

“Get _up_.” She yanks, maybe too forcefully, on Misato’s arm until she’s balanced on Ritsuko’s shoulder once more. She debates dusting her off, but decides the public groping of another woman’s ass might be better saved till after the past-midnight ride with an unknown middle-aged man of potential homophobic inclination.

“Where to?” he asks, when she’s managed to maneuver Misato into the backseat. Misato’s shaky hands try to do the job of fastening the seatbelt – muscle memory, ingrained habit pushing through the haze of intoxication – but the latch proves too much and Ritsuko has to do it for her. She can feel the mounting aggravation in the driver’s voice, but it can’t be helped. If she keeps Misato from soiling his faux-leather seats, she’ll call the evening a success.

If not… well, there’s always money. She’ll take it out of Misato’s wallet in the morning.

She calls out her own address, force of habit, and before she can correct it to Misato’s, whose place is nearer, a hand wraps around hers, squeezing, maybe too hard, and she turns to see Misato’s bright eyes staring: an inch too close.

“Thank you,” she whispers, and her grin is back, and everything feels right with the world again, and Ritsuko remembers why she came.

Because even if she’s not the real balm, even if she does nothing at all, seeing a sad look on Misato’s face is the worst discomfort. Worse than sticky shoes, or heavy noise, or groping hands. She can’t end an evening knowing that hangdog look is still shrouding her; it’s wrong for her face. It doesn’t match her complexion.

It makes Ritsuko want to slap her until she’s alright and smiling again.

She doesn’t correct the cab driver.

She doesn’t complain when Misato falls asleep against her shoulder by the second stoplight.

She doesn’t even grumble as she pulls the half-conscious girl up the two flights of stairs to her tiny bachelor apartment, or when Misato’s spider limbs take up more than her share of the bed, or when the couch’s dips crunch against her back and she longs for nothing more than the warmth of her quilts.

In the morning Misato makes her breakfast, nary a dark circle marring her face, and kisses her cheek when Ritsuko complains about the burnt eggs before darting to eject the toast before it meets the same fate.

Misato is smiling.

Ritsuko can almost convince herself she’s the reason.

Not that it matters, really.

**Author's Note:**

> Just a ficlet thrown hastily together after a long day. I'd love to write more for this modern verse, I have THOUGHTS. (Also I want these two lovelies to be happy, so there's that motivation as well :))


End file.
